


Quick as a Flash

by marshymellowmonster



Category: Blackadder, Red Dwarf
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Headcanon, Historical References, I Blame Tumblr, Paradox, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshymellowmonster/pseuds/marshymellowmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As promised- the Ace/Flash crossover!<br/>I posted my idea for this on Tumblr a while ago, since then grief has changed it. Crossover between my two favourite shows. Also minor crossover with something else- just needed to borrow another character- nothing major enough to tag separately.<br/>When Ace Rimmer finds himself the victim of a dimensional skid and suddenly in the skies above the Somme bad things happen. But then Flasheart takes him under his wing. Masquerading as a pilot of the time he's got to survive until his ship can repair and he can escape. But there's one problem- he's got to avoid creating a paradox that destroys the universe at the same time. </p><p>Also now with added headcanon for both shows!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quick as a Flash

**Author's Note:**

> I have done loads of research for this, and made it as accurate as possible. However, I do accept I may have made some mistakes. Tell me, but don't take the mickey. I started this one a week or so ago, after my Grandad died, writing was an outlet. Thus it has changed since the original Tumblr post.  
> Minor crossover for my usual guest boys- I had to borrow Major Raymond this time! 
> 
> Disclaimer: the Beeb own Blackadder and Red Dwarf. The family of the late Captain Johns owns Raymond and the others. Only the boys of A- and B- flight belong to me+ a few other random names, you can have them though. I own nothing. since I want to go to uni next year I will soon own less than nothing. just debts-if you want them, go ahead!!!

Major the Honourable Lord Flasheart could hardly believe his eyes at the curious sight that was right in front of him. One minute he was on offensive patrol looking for Jerries to add to his kill count, with one eye on the sky and his mind on the Colonel’s wife he’d left in his billet. ‘Saucy Bird!’ he thought, Woof! Remembering what they’d done together. The next thing he knew there was an almighty thump and the strangest ‘plane he ever saw was rocketing through followed by a full circus or two, of multi-coloured Germans, Albotroses, Fokker triplanes and even a couple of Hanoveranas. There even looked to be an old obsolete Rumpler. It looked like every German in France was after this poor sod, but none had a chance against the speed of the newcomer. It was huge, scarlet red and utterly devoid of markings. It did not seem to have a propeller anywhere and appeared to have a covered cockpit, he couldn’t see the pilot. It was like something out of an H.G Wells novel had sprung to life right before him.

For a moment, he thought whether the aircraft could be friendly or not and considered shooting it down himself- it carried no markings, unacceptable in the rules of war, both sides could legitimately take it down. But the Germans were clearly after him with a passion so he had to be on the Allied side. They wouldn’t want to kill him if he was on their side, after all. At least, not if they knew it was on their side.

Then before he could decide whether to act one way or another it morphed before his very eyes into a Sopwith Camel, a type identical to his own but with red detailing as opposed to the blue on his own. Flasheart shook himself hard to be sure he hadn’t started dreaming. He couldn’t have gone that mad could he? He had to have been seeing things. “Damn” he cursed himself “If I get out of this I’m never drinking before I go on offensive patrol again.” It was a promise he knew he would not, and could not, keep. Turning right, seemingly on a sixpence, he brought his Camel into the fray, watching the other pilot do the same in the unfamiliarly marked plane. 

The air came alive with bullets as the two Camels spun and dodged around enemy bullets and fired their own guns in revenge. The fight glowed with orange tracer as it flew absolutely everywhere. Flasheart whooped as he sent a Triplane down, witnessing it collide with an Albotros condemning them both to crash in flames. The Rumpler and the Hanoveranas had both turned tail as soon as the shooting started, their age making them vulnerable and neither of the two allied pilots had any inclination to follow them and miss bigger and newer pickings. Before he knew it Flasheart had sent three more down to join it and saw as the other pilot too did some damage to enemy numbers before the rest buggered off back to their aerodromes. Good! That would teach them a lesson, at least for a while. Though he was perfectly happy to remind them if and when they forgot. Without Germans his job was no fun. 

Then came a sound that he truly dreaded hearing. The splutter of a Bentley aero engine, the type fitted to some Camels such as his, as it struggled to keep functioning under dire circumstances. The spluttering stopped, peace for just one moment and then the engine coughed and died. For a split second he feared it was his before he saw smoke pouring out of the other ‘plane’s cowling. He watched as the man landed and jumped from his plane to a nearby shell hole as if waiting for the thing to explode. It was a rational thing to do, as everybody knew planes with engine trouble were liable to explode. Somehow, it didn’t explode. Flash considered landing to pick up the man but decided to watch what the stranger did first and circled over the site. The man stood forlorn and then walked back to the troublesome plane, looked at the engine inspecting it. Tried spinning the prop. Nothing. 

In the end, Flash decided to pity the bloke and laded as close as he dared. “Come on” he shouted. “I’ll give you a lift, at least back to my squadron, hop up on the wing”. The man looked aimlessly at his own downed craft a moment and then at Flash. “Leave it, I’ll get some erks to pick it up”. The strange pilot walked up and hopped expertly onto the left wing holding on tightly to the canvas and the spar, but not the wires. ‘clearly a man accustomed to the Camel’ Flash thought ‘he’s hopped onto the wing that’ll bother me less- counter my torque- and he wants to keep his fingers.’  
\--------------------------rdbl-------------------------  
Ace recovered from the shock of his latest Dimension Jump only for it to be replaced by the shock of finding himself in a strange warzone. He had appeared to find himself on an alternate version of Earth, some three hundred years before he was born by all indications. Judging by the black puffs of artillery and the types of biplanes chasing after him he was over the German side of the lines sometime in the First World War. Looking at the types present it couldn’t be any earlier than autumn or winter 1917. “Get me the hell out here computer!” he shouted at his dashboard, voice filled with rare terror. 

A look of sheer confusion crossed the female computer’s face and then she reported back to her pilot.  
“I can’t Ace. The dimensional tear has sealed temporarily- we’re stuck. The best I can do is make us look more at home.” In an instant the nanobotically controlled camouflage systems got to work, giving the Wildfire the appearance of a Sopwith camel similar to the one Ace could see approaching him. In the same instant he toggled his light bee controls to give himself a new outfit. Gold flight suit was replaced with padded leather and helmet was replaced by cap and goggles, along with the flying gloves, they’d be his only protective equipment. Still, the newly open cockpit made him perishing cold. ‘I’m bloody glad those GELFs gave me this masking in return for getting rid of those Sims. Its paid me back God knows how many times.’ He thought to himself. At least he looked more the part now. 

He saw out of the corner of his eye the other pilot he’d seen in the distance when he’d first arrived start to attack the planes chasing him. The least he could do was help, since he was the reason the entire Luftwaffe was on this man’s tail. Spinning, dipping and diving he managed to take out three, even with the unfamiliar controls of the ancient aircraft. The wildfire had decided to go whole hog into this new disguise, leaving him with the barest of controls and virtually no instruments. The experience was topped off by the fact he now had no automatically firing weapons but he soon adapted. 

Then he heard the unfamiliar engine noise change. Obviously his shielding had got in the way of the camouflage and one of the buggers had managed to get a hit on his drive pots. It could be repaired by the automatic systems, even in this form, but it would take quite some time. Realising he had no choice he glided down and prepared to hide out until wildfire was ready to move on. Nevertheless, he was extremely confused and grateful when the native pilot, a handsome fair haired man with a huge moustache from what he could see, picked him up. 

The first thing he did was decide not to speak until the wildfire had repaired enough that the telepathic link he had with the computer was returned. Then he could at least build a rational cover story. His hopes were almost dashed when a burst of machine gun fire caught the plane which blew up in a highly decorative and very bright orange flame. 

He hung on tight taking care not to touch anything that was especially vital, at least where he could actually avoid it.  
\-----------------------------rdbl------------------------------------  
The journey back to his home base, 383 squadron was quick, only about 10 minutes but Flasheart was on edge the whole time. He kept glancing over his shoulder to see if he was still alone like all decent pilots, and kept high to avoid the flak and small arms/rifle fire. Every now and then he looked at his passenger who was holding on with grim determination and a puzzled look on his face that almost looked like he didn’t know where he was. Flash made a note to get the man to see the MO Doc Braithnaught once they were on the ground. He was certainly looking very peaky. He hadn’t said a word and the one time he’d been caught looking his passenger had given him a wan smile that didn’t reach his goggled eyes. It was almost as if the man was just a shell devoid of any identity or feature. Either that, or for some reason he was hiding it.

Once they were landed Flash quickly hopped out and turned to his new companion. “Are you alright?” he said with probably more concern in his voice than he actually felt. He had always been pretty good at faking things, especially emotions. The man stood up and grinned, before nodding and taking off his cap and goggles and stuffing them in his pocket. ‘Not much of a talker eh?’ Flasheart thought and looked the new man up and down. He was handsome and blond much like himself but clean-shaven. If it wasn’t for the height they could be related- the other was well over six foot- the man was so tall Flash wondered how he managed to get in the Camel at all. They could be brothers- even their build was similar, thin but muscular and the man even appeared to be his own age late twenties, early thirties. “Come with me and we’ll get you sorted out” he ordered after realising the man wasn’t going to answer, watching as the man followed.  
\-------------------------------------rdbl------------------------------

Ace smiled again even as he was being led into a Nissen hut as he felt the familiar reassuring presence of the computer link return. ‘Ace’ he heard the computer get his attention before continuing ‘I’ve started the repair and I’m on my way back on a wagon, of all things. Don’t ask how I’ve done it, you don’t want to know trust me, but I’ve given you a cover story and identity. I’ve managed to keep your name at least- you are a ferry pilot, a captain who transferred over from the infantry. You are awaiting transfer to an operational squadron but you were flying to the pool at St Omer. I’ve also managed to get you some kit sent over.’

“Sit down and take a load off” he was told as he entered the office where his rescuer was already seated behind an impressive carved oak desk. “Not bad flying, if I say so myself, not as good as mine of course, but then whose is” the man who was wearing a Major’s uniform said. “The name’s Flasheart, Major Flasheart, claimer of every woman on the western front. What’s yours and what are you doing here?”

Ace swallowed and replied “Captain Arnold Rimmer Sir- ex Ferry pilot waiting to be attached to an active squadron. And I’m here because they shot down my Wildfire sir.” Ace didn’t like playing subaltern or using his first name but it was better than exposing his secret, he hoped that his slip in mentioning the name of his ship would be taken for fondness, if buttering up like he was as green as new spring grass covered his mistake it would be worth it. Flash heard the man’s voice and listened for words of a lie- there were none. The pilot spoke in a calm but cheery baritone, slightly deeper than Flash’s own admittedly excitable brash voice. 

“Rimmer eh? Your parents hated you, didn’t they? What you need is a nickname- what did you name that thing of yours? Wildfire was it? Well from now on that’s you too- you were firing those twin Vickers like a man possessed” Flash said, ignoring the grimace on the other man’s face “As for a squadron you’ve found it. I’m in the market for a couple of new men, go and speak to the recording officer and equipment officer and they’ll sort everything out.” Ace knew full well why he was in ‘the market for new men’ but he also knew he needed to kill some time before he could go back. At least this gig should kill some of that time.  
\------------------------------------------rdbl------------------

Ace spoke first to the senior recording officer, who introduced himself as Captain Handley. He was an older man, tired looking, but friendly and helpful. He showed him round and issued him with a pilot’s log book after Ace gave him a story about the other one being destroyed in the ‘ferry plane’ crash and subsequent explosion. His three new kills were quickly added to it and the squadron records- two more kills, he was told, and he would officially become an Ace. He had to admit getting a slight kick out of that.

Then he saw the equipment officer. Captain Wilson wasn’t as nauseatingly jolly but was still helpful laying on a bunk and allocating a Camel for his use. He also promised to locate his kit, which Ace couldn’t help a small chuckle when he heard. Luckily the man seemed to take it as a comment on the state of the higher power’s organisation rather than a personal affront which certainly would have been a bad start. Not to mention that mocking laughter was not his first choice in insults, he had much, much better tactics. Not that he liked to use them, these days. 

After being told to make himself at home in the mess, Ace sat in one of the comfortable chairs silently communicating with his computer through the link. ‘It’ll be at least a week Ace, I’m sorry- and that’s if I manage to self-repair on schedule- I’m hiding at the back of the hangar with my shields on but I can’t repair when there’s someone watching’ said the computer, the words ringing in his head. He sighed aloud then replied in the same manner ‘It’s alright love, I know you’re doing your best and I’ll manage, any clue why I’m here?’ 

After a pregnant pause the computer finally replied. ‘As you know the flow of time between two dimensions is not linear. As it happens a dimensional skid has pushed us into a dimension where you haven’t even been born yet. This, at least in theory shouldn’t happen, but it has many times with your predecessors. This means that the dimension jump drive couldn’t lock on to your dimensional duplicate as it is programmed to do. In this case it therefore locked on to the first relative it could find- Flasheart. You are a direct descendant of his. Or at least the Flasheart in your reality- in this one, you never existed originally because he was shot down, but you turning up saved him and means you will exist.’ 

Well that made things interesting, not only had he changed the future in this reality, he had also met one of his ancestors. Ace thought back to what Flash was like- sex mad and rude, definitely on his mother’s side of the family. And evidently his natural womanizing tendencies were genetic too, as sleeping around definitely was. Before he could fully ponder this new information however he was disturbed by the arrival of three men in a loose approximation of the same uniform he was wearing. One was Flasheart whilst the other two men were unsurprisingly strangers. 

Flash was, again unsurprisingly, the first to talk. “So how do you like the mess? Still could do with a bit more decoration I suppose, but we manage.” Ace looked around since he hadn’t really noticed what the room looked like before. In one corner there was a small but well stocked bar next to a dilapidated but clearly fondly-used piano. A few easy chairs were crowded round a fireplace whilst there were two big tables with other chairs in the centre of the room. The walls were decorated with a few big guns and bullet ridden parts of enemy planes as well as a few official looking posters. A few dirty magazines, or what passed for them in the early 20th century completed the look. “It’s nice- very unique” Ace said, hedging. He didn’t want to offend his new hosts and crewmates, but at the same time it wasn’t really his cup of tea. 

Flash nodded, accepting this answer as the best he was going to get. “Wildfire, this is Batty Browne and Jock McAndrew- Jock, Batty, the new man Wildfire Rimmer” The introductions were informal and the three said hello in that rather awkward way all new acquaintances when introduced via a third party. Afterwards Flash continued. “Look, Wild’, the boys and I are going into town tonight, do you want to come with us and experience the local nightlife if you know what I mean? WOOF!”  
Sadly Ace did know what he meant. The poor French women did not deserve to be subjected to this womanising dog wannabe. The fact that this man was related to him made just a little bit of anger want to bubble to the surface, but he suppressed it regardless. “I should really look at the maps, and check out the lines Sir. Better get a feel for the place now rather than get lost once I’m on patrol” he replied feigning regret as best he could. 

“Nonsense man!” the man bellowed “We’re leaving at 8 and its only one now. Plenty of time to get that lot out of the way and still be ready for a good time.” Ace conceded, realising that there was no way he was going to be able to get out of an evening on the town. What was it the computer used to say, ‘there is no arguing with an idiot’? It was advice he had heard many times, and unfortunately he had never been able to prove the computer wrong.  
\----------------------------------rdbl-----------------------------------------  
The rest of the day passed soon enough. He spent a good hour looking at the maps, and another half hour familiarising himself with the types of aeroplanes he would see before Taff and Willy- another two other pilots who were in B flight, whilst he’d been attached to A, dragged him out for a spin to get to know the landscape. Flying a Camel, a proper one and not the Wildfire was daunting but he soon caught on and the half hour trip was uneventful for Ace was already familiar with the landscape. Though he did spot so many features he hadn’t noticed before, probably because he’d been defending himself or holding on with all his might on the trip before.

All too soon however it was the evening and Flash bodily dragged him onto the transport tender into town. “Come on, you’re socialising whether you like it or not! I can’t have it spread around that any of my pilots are good decent chaps who are square. We’re all fun lads no man should leave his daughter with. You have one life and ‘round here it’s not going to be very long- so why not spend it with the wine, women and song. Woof!” Ace could think of plenty of reasons why he did not want to socialise- being from the future and socialising with an ancestor was not good. One wrong step and he could cause a paradox- in which case it would be bye-bye to the entire dimension and everything in it. Including him. He didn’t really want to do anything whilst he was here, just in case. He’d been lucky not to cause one before with shooting down three Germans who were meant to survive and saving a man who was meant to die.

Never the less, an hour later found him in a bar sat around a table with the other pilots of the squadron, only half sober. The place was cheery and full of allied officers, many of whom were singing along to what was being played on the piano, something about ‘not having a hope in the morning’. Suddenly there was a clunk of empty bottles being knocked off the table and everything changed in an instant. The whole bar went quiet and turned towards where two men in RFC uniform were silently squaring up. One was short, fair and clean-shaven whilst the other was tall, dark and moustachioed. Ace flinched as he was nudged by Flash as he stage whispered “Biggles and Wilks at it again. This should be a good one. They’re rivals and usually pretty good about it too- squadron honour at stake and all that, keeping the rough stuff for the enemy in the air- but every now and then…” 

Whatever Flasheart was going to say was cut short by a scandalised “What did you say?” From the dark haired one. A scowl crossed the other’s face before he slowly drawled “I said. My Camel can defeat your flying greenhouse any day of the week!” This was met with a look of anger by the other man and a couple of his friends. “Oh no it couldn’t. My SE 5a could beat your humpback any day of the week- just like I could beat you, you cove!” He drunkenly moved to throw a punch, which was returned with little more success, glancing the man’s ear. Ace stood up and readied himself to break it up. These men were supposed to be on the same side for God’s sake! They should save the fighting for the enemy.

Reaching the two he realised he towered above them- pilots were not generally the tallest of people after all. And in this time period people were shorter anyway. Using this to his advantage he pulled the two apart from where they were now wrestling on the floor ignoring boos and groans from the other men in the bar who had been watching and in some cases, betting on the results. “Why don’t you save the fighting for Jerry old chap” he addressed them, receiving only a scathing look in return. If looks could kill, he would have died twice. 

Satisfied he’d done his bit he moved to return to his table, only to be pulled aside by a man wearing the red and gold lapels of a staff major. “Sir” he forced out, and gave what he hoped was a crisp salute, not wanting to draw any official attention to himself regardless of how good his cover story may or may not be. “At ease, we’re not on duty” the man chuckled out, and Ace relaxed a little sensing the genuine cheer in his voice. “Good to see someone with some sense, surprised since Flasheart has taken a shine to you- most of his lads don’t have two brain cells to rub together.” Ace smiled thinking that was true especially of the leader himself, controlled but genuine and as soon as he was free, returned to his squadron mates. 

The rest of the evening was uneventful except that they had missed the tender. This meant, since he was one of the most sober, leading several drunken men back to an aerodrome he’d only been to once. It was a journey of several miles and that was if he didn’t get lost. He was a realist, he knew he was going to get lost as a newcomer who was intoxicated and in a position of responsibility.  
\-------------------------------------rdbl-------------------------------------------

Needless to say, Ace got lost. Eventually he found himself at a British rest camp where a tired looking captain was berating something that may or may not have been human. It was dressed in the mud-covered uniform of a British Tommy, but resembled a half shaved ape. Realising he had no choice, he asked for directions. “Excuse me. I don’t suppose you know the way to 383 squadron aerodrome do you?” The captain smirked. “What do want there? The ego-that walks like a man? Major Flash-gits station is 2 miles dead ahead.”

Ace went to thank the man and walk off when Flasheart who at this point was drunkenly hanging off Ace’s shoulder woke up “What do you know, its Slack bladder!” he slurred. The army captain grimaced and spoke to Ace, who he correctly judged as the more sober one “It’s Blackadder. Are you his new pawn?”

Ace smiled patiently over the sarcasm and looked around, seeing that most of the others were now catching up. “Charmed to meet you, and I suppose you could say that- I’m new in his squadron.” Blackadder paused as if thinking and then asked “Tell me, are you as stupid as the rest of them, wanting this war to go on for ever?” His fist was clenched suggesting that, depending on his answer, Ace could find himself getting punched for this.

Ace could at least answer that question completely honestly. “No sir, I just want to go home, I’d be off right now if I could.” Of course the man didn’t know he meant his home dimension, not his home town but, hey ho. “Amen” Blackadder replied. Looking at the drunken men who were now following Ace he continued “Good luck!” It was a rare show of feeling from the captain, and so after feeling ill that he had done so, he added sotto voce “you’re going to need it.”  
\---------------------------------------rdbl----------------------------------------  
The next day Ace was woken just before dawn after just three hours of sleep, along with the other two officers of A flight by a young corporal who was A-flight’s batsman- another word for lackey. Ace’s head was fuzzy but still a lot better than the other two’s, who judging by the swearing, had the mother of all hangovers. The poor corporal was repeatedly invited to ‘bugger off’ and to ‘boil his head’ old fashioned insults in Ace’s time but shockingly rude in the reality he now found himself in. The corporal quickly and repeatedly apologised saying that he would have let them sleep in but ‘dawn patrol waits for no man’ and, making his excuses, left the billet as fast as he was able. With the mood in there, Ace couldn’t say he blamed him. 

After washing, shaving and changing into the strange padded flight suit that the other two wore, which he was quickly growing to hate, Ace finally looked at the clock. 5:30- the corporal had at least woken them early enough that they could have breakfast before they left. Ace and Batty talked over their plans, trying to force down burnt toast and horrible Bromide-laced tea, whilst Jock drank half a bottle of strong scotch whiskey instead. “I expect I’ll have to pack his kit in a couple of hours or so, his nerves are completely shot. You can always tell it’s near the end when they start drinking for breakfast” Batty whispered to him. Ace hoped the man wasn’t right. The man needed to go, that much was clear, but he hoped it wouldn’t be in a box or in an ambulance. But that was what they said about the Camel- it got you a Victoria Cross, the Red Cross or a wooden cross.

Afterwards, a surprisingly sober Jock joined them in the map room where they decided on a course and what to do. Batty was the flight leader going in front, Jock in the middle and Ace as the new boy was at the back. “Wildfire- when I waggle my wings it means Huns. Remember to look about you. And for God’s sake man don’t get trigger happy- fire a short burst as you reach the lines to warm the guns up like we do but otherwise don’t fire until you need too otherwise you’ll have none left when you get into bother.” Jock also had some advice of a different nature. “I tell all the new ‘uns that if they get one down before they die they’re even. If you get two before you go west, you’re one up and you’ve helped win the war. You’ve already got three- continue to help win the war. If you die, I’ll kill you!” Ace couldn’t help thinking the man took the ‘hair of the dog’ treatment a little too far.

And then it was zero hour, Ace clambered into the cockpit of a proper Camel, which he barely fit in and started it up. The noise was atrocious with his headache and he now saw why the pilots used hand signals. Taxiing was harder than it looked with no assisted steering but he was soon up in the blue just like before, again he was amazed at the responsiveness of the biplane compared to what it had been like on the ground. Ahead and just to the side of him, but close, were the other two who were scanning the air carefully. Having no desire to ‘go west’ as they put it he joined them. He saw one speck, which coalesced into a British RE 8 once they approached but nothing German. 

All of a sudden he started as the other two fired their guns. Looking around he realised he was just over the lines and they were warming up. Quickly so as not to look strange, he too pulled the Bowden lever which let the two guns go off together. 

The patrol was for the most part just flying around at 20,000 feet looking for an enemy that wasn’t there. Below he could still see the RE8, flying around in figure of eights, obviously on artillery observation duties. Once or twice, he thought he saw something, a shadow on the clouds or similar, only for it to turn out to be nothing. It was as if every German pilot on the western front had suddenly decided to pack up and go home. It would certainly be the dream-come-true for virtually every man in France if they had, but alas it could not be the case. 

After a couple of hours the patrol was over with no shots fired against the enemy and no injury to themselves. Only once did they see a German plane, and that was already crashing. Not shooting at anybody suited him fine. It also meant Jock was coming home safe, and they wouldn’t have to pack anybody’s kit. All was well.  
\---------------------------------------------rdbl--------------------------------------------  
Over the next couple of days it was all routine patrols, two a day for each flight- one in the morning and one in the evening, with no action whatsoever. Though the period of relative peace should have been doing him a world of good, Ace was fed up. He was well and truly BORED. Everybody else was on edge as well, they knew what the quiet period meant. The Germans were just pooling their resources for one big offensive and soon neither side would get any rest as everything happened at once. 

He’d been to see the Wildfire a couple of times, and she teased him about the fact that here, they shared a name. Her repair was coming along nicely and in just a couple of days she’d be ready and he’d be out of here. Though he would miss the casual friends he’d made here, he wouldn’t be sorry to go. The nights at least were a little better than the days. He drank and sang and laughed with the rest of them. They all blatantly ignored the fact that at any time, one or maybe all of them could meet their fate. 

It was only on the morning of the 4th day he’d been stuck there that things started to change. The staff officer he’d seen in the French bar arrived in a staff car, buff coloured folder tucked under his arm, exposed his business. He and the others were sitting outside in the sunshine looking into the clear skies, almost hoping for a Hun. “Ooh, ‘ello!” shouted Bert, a rigger for C flight “Major Raymond’s ‘ere- Goodbye you lot”. His boss Alf shouted at him to ‘shut it and respect the betters’. Jock explained for the benefit of him and the other new boys that Raymond was in intelligence, and that if he was here on business then that was bad news. He favoured other squadrons since he hated Flasheart, and if he was here that meant whatever he was here for was so dangerous, that he felt too guilty to ask for any more pilots from the others. Which meant several men had already been killed doing whatever mission this project was. 

It was barely twenty minutes later when Raymond and Flasheart came out of the office to see them. Raymond had a tiredly patient expression, whilst Flash had a strange mix of excitement and dread. By some kind of unsaid agreement, all of the pilots got up and followed the two into the map room preparing for their orders.  
The mission turned out to be simple but dangerous. Photo reconnaissance over a position where the Germans were suspected of hiding a new but very large gun emplacement. The area was filled with anti-aircraft guns, and shielded by a wood, it wouldn’t be easy. And that’s if the Luftwaffe continued to remain on the ground, there was an aerodrome nearby with a well-trained circus of enemy fighters. The weather was good, and there was no reason why they wouldn’t be up, at the very least doing some training. Something wasn’t quite adding up.

“I’ve come here because I think you have a chance, this mission is important and this squadron is our last hope.” Raymond began “I won’t lie to you- this mission is dangerous. 266 and 287 have already had a crack at it and lost men- 266 have lost Wells and probably Bigglesworth as well, and 287 have lost Bull and Perkins. I cannot ask them for anymore so now it is your chance. I shall not order you to do this, I will however ask for volunteers. If any man wants to pull out, he may.”

“A-flight will do it Sir!” shouted Jock. It was obviously a matter of pride for him that his flight was better than the others. Even if it meant volunteering for missions described as certain death, which supposedly better men had died doing. 

“A-Flight it is!” Raymond said. “I’ll be back later to check how you did- the job has to be done today or the information won’t be any good.” 

‘Oh god’ thought Ace. ‘Serves me right for wanting a little excitement.’  
\------------------------------------------rdbl---------------------------------------------------  
A short amount of time later they were up in the cloudless blue sky, just about to cross into enemy territory. Jock was in the lead with the camera, with him and Batty as armed escorts. The mission was so dangerous because for the photo, they had to fly low and slow putting them in danger from the AA, small arms, the lot. And then they had to face it all again on the way home as well as running away from the hornet’s nest of enemy aircraft they’d undoubtedly stir up.

The three planes bounced and jerked their way through the black anti-aircraft fire, small nicks being made through the wings and centre section by the shrapnel which was only just missing the pilots. It was strangely accurate- expert gunners obviously meant there was something to hide- normal gunners generally hit a spot 300 yards or so behind the plane. Ace and Batty scanned the skies for the enemy, spotting nothing so far but aware there was something out there. They all knew. Ahead of them, they could see the target woods and as one they slowed down to get a better shot. They circled over the target twice to get the instillation, obvious from above, from all angles. It would make it easier for the artillery gunners to get rid of it- and if they did it right this time, they wouldn’t have to go back over and do it again. 

The pass went well, bagging them all the photos they needed as Jock held up his right palm, the signal for ‘let’s go home’. Ace couldn’t stop the sigh of relief, though he knew he was not quite out of danger yet. The sigh died in his throat however as he turned a saw a veritable swarm of Albotroses in every colour of the rainbow racing towards them. “Oh Smeg!” he yelled automatically though even though even he couldn’t hear it over the roar of the engines. He wondered what the others would think of the unfamiliar curse if they had of heard it. 

Together they realised they could not get away. Jock waggled his wings, signalling they should turn and face the enemy. Ace turned, straight into the path of a canary yellow Albotros. As taught, he would not turn. It was the rules of the RFC- never be the one to turn out of a dogfight even if it means crashing. It was a point of honour.  
Luckily the Albotros swerved, just in time to avoid hitting the Camel, Spandau machine guns flaring all the way. Ace turned as well, giving the German a taste of his own twin Vickers. Immediately, he saw a line of small dots leading from the tail plane through to the engine. The plane jerked, and then fell steeply. Obviously the pilot had been hit and fallen onto the control stick. He turned back into the fray, picking his next target- an orange one with wing ribbons indicating he was a flight commander. Getting rid of a high ranking pilot may shake the others into retreating, so Ace knew he had to try.

The pilot was skilled and they rolled and banked and fought. One of them would not be coming home again to fight another day. At least one of them, if not both. Ace balked as he realised it was probably going to be him- his plane was already badly damaged, bullet ridden from the other opponent he’d faced. He gave his opponents one last burst of his guns, emptying them into the plane. It caught fire immediately and the pilot jumped out to face certain death. No one had parachutes here. Ace wondered what on earth was going through his head, having to make the choice- die in flames or die hitting the ground either way having time to think and regret. Looking at the damage to the Camel, he decided to head back, hoping that he would not come across any more trouble on the way. The other two also were turning back, having dispatched their opponents, and only looking slightly worse for wear. 

Ace’s plane was struggling to remain airborne, engine working at top whack, but it was making a disturbing noise, and he knew it would not last much longer. In the worst case scenario, he would just have to hope to have it give out on the allied side of the lines. But first he would have to keep it going long enough to reach safe skies.  
They were still just over the German trenches when it finally gave up. Not content to splutter out of life gently, it decided to catch fire, catching the fabric around it as well. Ace swore violently in every language he knew looking for one that accurately described what he was feeling. He failed miserably. He had no chance of returning safely now. Jock and Batty were just ahead of him, and he could see one of them, looking back to see his fate. He would just have to hope one of them would be able to pass on a message to help save him once he came down. He bravely gave them a nonchalant wave, trying to appear unconcerned about this latest development.  
\-------------------------------------------rdbl---------------------------------------  
He now had the same choice to make as the German he just shot down, the same one he’d pitied him for. Oh how quickly karma worked in a warzone. The camel smoked, and parts of the centre section were already covered in orange flames which were quickly spreading. He either had to jump and hope his light bee could survive the damage, or stay in the burning plane until it crashed… and hope his light bee survived the damage. It was hardly the best of choices. In the end the choice was made for him. He was thrown out as the plane spun quickly, tipping upside down as it went. 

Ace fell to the cold, wet mud of No-Man’s land with a loud squelch. Though to be absolutely fair, after a 3000 foot drop, it could have been so much worse. His light bee fizzed as it struggled to maintain regular transmission after the considerable impact. He groaned and picked himself up, looking himself over for injuries. His brown Sidcott flying jacket was a bit singed but he had no obvious physical injuries. His light bee was stuttering though- he was flicking from hard to soft light and that could never be a good sign.

Taking a close look he moved in the direction of the white AA smoke, only the British smoke was white. He took care to stay low, well aware both sides would shoot a man who walked up towards their trenches who was in an unfamiliar uniform. Not every tommy could tell the difference between friendly or enemy pilots. He crawled across the mud, ducking into shell holes and trying not to think what he might be stepping on- bodies, bombshells, and mines probably. It was nonetheless nerve wracking.  
The barbed wire didn’t hurt him, as he waited until he flickered into soft light and then passed harmlessly through it. Eventually he reached a trench where taking care not to be seen and shot, he passed through. The sentry was asleep. He walked and walked for hours, glad that holograms could not feel tired, and eventually reached the aerodrome’s perimeter. Bracing his sore ribs, he ducked down under the perimeter fence.  
\---------------------------rdbl--------------------------------------------  
A few hours earlier a forlorn “Batty” Browne and “Jock” McAndrew landed together on the lone grass landing strip. A crowd of their fellow pilots were rushing towards them having heard two engines rather than three coming in. A noise and accompanying concept they were all overly familiar with. They were all keen to see which one of them had ‘gone west’. Among them was Flasheart himself who usually at this time was on the prowl for innocent French girls to corrupt in the village. 

Once they had shut down their engines, they were rushed by their fellow crew members. Flash was one of the first to get to them. “Where’s Wildfire?” Flasheart gasped, keeping one eye on the horizon in hope he would come at any moment. It was a long chance but one they hoped for every time. The hope was rarely indulged. The look of the two weary men told them all they needed to know. Mechanics were already checking the bullet damage and technicians were moving the camera, making sure not to knock the delicate plates inside. 

“I’m sorry. He’s gone west.” Browne said, whilst Jock looked on in silent shock seemingly unaware of his surroundings. His nerves were finally completely gone. Flash noticed and vowed to get him posted home for treatment before he could do anything stupid. Getting posted Home Establishment would do the man a world of good, and was easy enough to sort out. He didn't know why he hadn't realised it wad this bad before. 'Because it wasn't' his brain helpfully informed him.

“What? Are you sure? What in the name of God’s bollocks happened man?” Flash demanded insistently. 

“I’m sure. I don’t know exactly what happened. We ran into some Huns on the way back- Wildfire managed to take two down and me and Jock get a couple as well. One of them shot him up pretty badly and his plane was struggling as we tried to get back. Eventually it just caught fire and he went down in an upside down spin. He either jumped or fell, but he waved as he went down. What a guy.” Brown lamented, knowing the man was popular among everybody.

“Well, I’ll call the lines and see if they can confirm wat happened to both plane and pilot” offered the recording officer. It would be good to know, but to let everybody have some futile hope in the meantime. "Two more down- makes five- died before claiming Ace status. Shame."

“And I’ll go and pack his kit- it only arrived a couple of days ago, there won’t be too much to do” said Kitchen, a pilot from B flight. 

“Aye, and himself only a couple of days before that” agreed the equipment officer. “I don’t think he has… had, anyone to send it back to though.”

They were all used to death but it did still have a bit of a sting when something they knew, had laughed with, had worked with, bought it in a way like that. Even in war, most people still managed a tiny sliver of grief, no matter how much they claimed not to feel a thing anymore or that they had grown used to it.  
\-----------------------------rdbl----------------------------------------  
Around the edge of the aerodrome, Ace Rimmer was having an absolute bugger of a time, he was cold, and wet and fed up. If that wasn’t enough, his light bee problem was getting worse. The periods where he was stuck in soft-light were getting longer and longer and he was leeching into translucency in both modes. If anyone was actually looking they would think, half rightly, that he was in fact a ghost. If he could get back to the Wildfire before he could get any worse, he could self-repair in a nice, quiet dimension. If not… well, he didn’t really want to think about it, but it meant going to that big airfield in the sky before he could recruit a replacement. 

That was the thought that did it for Ace. He was not going to be a disappointment again. He was NOT going to be the one who broke the chain. Whatever happened to him, the legend of Ace Rimmer could not stop here, in a wet field in France, in a strange dimension, some three hundred years before he was even born. Struggling, huffing and moaning, he walked on towards the hangar where his escape was assured. 

If he could only get away without being noticed, he’d be fine. If he could only get away. He didn't bother to try to collect his things. They'd be gone by now anyway.  
\--------------------rdbl-------------------------------------  
It was guest night in the common room at 383 squadron HQ. Not even the death of a close friend could warrant the cancelling of an official piss-up. If anything it surely meant that they really needed it that much more. There was a touch of melancholy about the native pilots but they were far outnumbered by equally drunk visitors who picked the mood up just enough that it did not seem like a wake. Even if it kind of was one. 

By this point, late in the evening, the visitors and home squadron were all well past ‘sore heads in the morning’ drunk and halfway to ‘leave me here to die’ drunk. The visitors from 303 squadron had bought some whiskey, and along with the men of the other squadrons were making the party a bit livelier, playing around on the piano. They steered away from anything too close to home having been warned on arrival of the situation, sticking to the classics “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” and “When This Bloody War Is Over” which were always popular. Then a rousing rendition of "we're here, because we're here."

Even the couple of staff officers that were present were joining in. If they were sober they would no doubt being reprimanded for playing it in the first place. Major Raymond was there, drinking along with the rest of them feeling somewhat guilty about sending so many young men to die above the clouds and in unfriendly earth, along with a couple of army types one of whom was the infantry man from before. Flasheart had knocked one out with a punch, and was proceeding to have an animated argument with the other, who had the rank badge of infantry captain. 

“Bad show Flasheart” Major Raymond remarked to the other Major. “That’s four men we’ve lost now to this mission now, but at least this time was a success. We shan’t lose any more men to this godforsaken reconnaissance. The artillery are just kicking off their performance in the next couple of hours. ”

“Five men now Raymond- you lost four before you came to us” replied Flasheart- half distracted by glaring at his nemesis, the infantry officer. 

“No. Four. Young Bigglesworth somehow manage survive landing sideways in a tree. Turned up and crashed his own wake. Asked what all the fuss was about. That man has more miraculous escapes than the rest of the Royal Flying Corps combined” Raymond corrected, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Shame about your man. Liked him. Seemed to have a lot of sense in him. Would have shaped up as a fine flyer I expect.” 

“Yes shame.” He’ll never get the chance now, thanks to you Flash thought. Something out the window caught Flasheart’s eye. It looked human, tall but it was half see-through and was glowing, a faint eerie green. He couldn’t see any details but something seemed familiar about the spectre. “Can you see that?” he asked Raymond, nudging him and pointing at the apparition. 

“Yes” replied Raymond “what on Earth is that?” 

He had to confess that he didn’t have the slightest clue what it was. Instead of investigating himself and wasting valuable drinking time, he got his poor young batsman to check it out. “Jones, check whatever that thing is.” With the faint green glow it could almost be gas, if it wasn’t so isolated. Damned if he was sending an officer out into such a situation. Privates however, surely grew on trees.  
\---------------------------------------rdbl-------------------------------------------  
A couple of minutes later, the poor private returned from his perilous mission, looking somewhat ashen. “Y-y-you’ll n-never believe me when I tell you w-what I’ve seen Sir!” 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost” Laughed 2nd Lieutenant McKay from 303 squadron RNAS based just up the road. 

“I think I h-have Sir!” answered the poor private “It was the new man. Mr Rimmer? I tried to talk to him- invite him inside to join us and ask if he was Alright, how he’d survived and all that but he wasn’t paying attention. Then I got closer and I could see through him Sir. Then I tried to get his attention by putting my hand on his shoulder and it passed straight through!” He looked about ready to pass out from sheer fright. 

“You must be drunk private. There’s no such thing as ghosts” sneered one of the army types, a captain with general headquarters pips on his uniform. He was the one who had earlier got knocked out. 

“He isn’t drunk! I saw something myself as did Raymond. Are you going to disagree with two majors and get another punch?” retorted Flasheart, his voice growling.  
“Then, by God, there really are spirits who aren’t at peace round here. We’ve all heard the stories about them. We should call the padre and get him to exorcise them, let them have peace in the kingdom of heaven.” cried Lea, a young Lieutenant.

“Hold it! I’m not having one of those god-damn bible bashers here! This is Flash’s territory. WOOF!” Flasheart yelled. He couldn’t see the point of exorcism, the ghosts- if that’s what they were- weren’t doing any harm.  
\-----------------------------------------rdbl-----------------------------------------------  
Everyone suddenly was shocked into silence by a loud roar. It was not the thrum of a Bentley engine, nor the annoying pour-vous pour-vous of a German plane. It was like nothing they had heard before. It was most similar to the whoosh of a blowing gale or the roar of an alpha lion, except a million times stronger and louder.  
They looked out of the window to see an impossible figure, going away in an even more impossible Camel- every single one was lined up, still there on the airfield. ‘A ghost pilot in a ghost camel?’ Possible, maybe. It certainly didn’t sound anything like a Camel. It had to be a spirit, out to avenge his life being cut mercilessly short. There were stories like this, from all over the Western Front and beyond, but being rational men they’d never believed them. Had they been wrong? Or were they just drunk. How could they doubt something right in front of them?

Ace staggered into the hangar and ripped off the tarpaulin cover from the Wildfire. Wasting no time he climbed in and could feel the limited healing power the ship could spare whilst preparing for take-off making him better. He still wasn’t great, but at least he wasn’t going to die, not at that moment anyway. The Wildfire, sensing his rush had kept the visual shielding on, but not her internal camouflage, inside she was all 24th century. 

The engines roared to life with the whoosh of a jet, rather than the thump of a petrol rotary, and it made his blood sing with happiness. It was such a welcoming noise. It sounded like…home. HE WAS GETTING TO GO HOME! He could only half believe it. 

He picked up speed and lifted off, rocketing into the vast black expanse of the night sky and saw the fireworks of an artillery zone strike below him just kicking off. He flicked the dimension jump switch and a few moments later he ripped his way out of reality and on his way home. And if anyone had a UHF radio, which nobody did because they hadn’t been invented yet, they would have heard him say “Smoke me a kipper, I’ll be back for breakfast.”  
\------------------------------------------epilogue---------------------  
Over the following, the final, year of the Great War, many of the pilots in the area swore they saw a ghost pilot and Camel flying straight at the foe. The legend grew and grew and got exaggerated but the men of 383 squadron stopped such hyperbole wherever they heard it. The story still grew however and even the locals in the French town heard it. Later on men who came home old their families until it became a folk tale, known by many but with hazy details only loosely based on truth. However, the survivors, got together and wrote their account. They were pretty miffed when it won the 'best fiction' award at a book awards show. 

After the war ended, the French farmer, on whose land the aerodrome had been built was reasonably freaked out. Being a deeply religious man, he called in the priest for an exorcism. The priest was adamant that although there had been ‘a good spirit there for a short time a long while ago, he was now far away’. Regardless, he performed the right. The farmer still had the buildings demolished just in case. 

Ace Rimmer had enough of being a space adventurer after the stress, and after recovering in the tropical paradise of Alpha 361, passed on the flame. His successor can’t yet see the reason he got fed up in the first place. The retiree, back in his home dimension and acting as his old self, is sure that he will soon learn. He didn’t break the chain, but set a new trend, which he hopes will continue. Retiring is so much a better policy than dying anyway. 

Lord Flasheart survived the war and did eventually meet the one woman who could stop him shagging every female in sight. Even if she never could stop him from doing an accurate impression of Battersea dogs home every time he made an innuendo. Which was a lot. He and Kate Parkhurst- known to some brainless individuals as Bob, got married and had 17 children. Their marriage was for the most part a happy one. Nevertheless being insatiable didn’t mean he stopped having affairs. He had a fatal heart attack aged 57 whilst in bed with the 19 year old maid. His widow spoke about the fact she would have killed him herself if she’d found him at his funeral.  
Batty Browne too survived the war and told his kids, and grandkids a watered down version of the amazing man he’d known for such short a time but who had made a big impression. Jock McAndrew, once freed from the stresses of war, slowly got better- though he never had any kids of his own he was a father figure to many in his community. In fact almost everybody in 383 squadron survived and seemed to live long and seemingly blessed lives. 

Blackadder, Darling, George and Baldrick all unfortunately died in the big push at the Somme in 1917. However the lines and stories of the families did not end. Many thought it was uncanny how nephews and cousins seemed to be just like them in looks and personality, but then again, maybe the universe just needs ‘someone to piss on’ as a wise man once said. 

Major Raymond, Bigglesworth and Wilks all enjoyed long and successful careers as the heroes of the RFC and later RAF.


End file.
